Escape
by NotAContrivance
Summary: Lizzie Bennet Diaries. Lizzie needs to escape from the insanity that is her life... Ricky Collins, her mother, Lydia... but an unexpected and somewhat surreal encounter with Darcy is what she gets. Naturally. Because even Lizzie can probably acknowledge that Darcy isn't a total douche all the time. Just most of the time.


So, I kind of expected that I would be writing LBD fic again, especially since Ashley Clements and a whole lot of other wonderful people read my last one, but I didn't expect it would be this soon. But then episode 37 happened, and I had this lingering idea that wouldn't go away... and I wound up being wrong. So here you go.

This story is set during Episode 37, and it's basically what Lizzie does after she storms out. Well, what I imagined (read: wished) her doing, anyway. I meant to have this up a while ago, but I was having difficulties figuring out where I wanted it to go, and the timeline wasn't super pressing. There are some slight spoilers for Episode 38 as well, but nothing super-duper specific or important. But plot points are slow in LBD... Anyway, this is in Lizzie's POV, and hopefully she and Darcy aren't too, too out-of-character. I kind of wanted to do a whole scope of how Lizzie was holding up with the constant Collins bombardment and all the stress she's under and whatnot. And I wanted to show that Collins was, really, _that_ annoying, as much as we all love Maxwell Glick. And, well, some of the things with Darcy I just really couldn't resist. He turned out even more awkward than I intended towards the end! Hence why I stayed up all night again writing... also, I can't decide if it's sad or if I deserve brownie points for looking forward more to FINALLY finishing and uploading this over going out on a semi-date that was like Swim Week only with black lights. And everyone there was douchier than George Wickham (plus, I mean, if anything you have to admire Wickham for being articulate and original, as opposed to real men who apparently think "Look at me" is a good pick-up line). So, really, no contest.

I don't own the LBD. Or P&P. Or any songs and/or brands mentioned, much less any of the related characters.

Anyway, apparently recent site updates mean that the site finally supports the "interrobang" character (or ?!). I did not know this "character" had a name. But it has the most awesome name ever, although it unfortunately sounds like some sort of porn thing. Luckily for you, this story features at least one, so interrobang away!

Incidentally, this story morphed into a mini-monster (and I especially didn't imagine while originally writing it that Lydia would show up as much as she did, but she's _so_ much fun to write! I can make her say whatever insane thing comes to mind!), so I hope it's not too boring or anything, and that you enjoy the fruits of my labor. Reviews and support are, as always, highly appreciated... although I might prefer seeing more LBD fics! There are so very few (this makes four, I believe), and the show's so great that there should TOTES be more!

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I can usually keep my cool really, really well. In fact, you can say that, after having to put up with my mother and Lydia for most of my life, I have a fairly high tolerance for annoying people. And I apparently survived a month at Netherfield with Darcy and the Agreeable Twins... how that happened, I'll never know... so I know this doesn't _just_ apply to my family members, who might irritate the crap out of me but whom I must love nonetheless. But after a week straight of Mr. Ricky Collins, I was beginning to lose it. What sanity I had managed to maintain from my little sojourn to Bing's country estate was even further depleted by, of course, Ricky's numerous interruptions and, naturally, Lydia's antics.

I'd missed Lydia while at Netherfield, in a quiet, thoughtful way, and, only occasionally, when I was bored and going a bit stir-crazy and vomming at Jane and Bing's googly-eyes, I even missed her loud, wildly-inappropriate antics... in a sort of nostalgic way. And also mostly because Bing's house was waaay too quiet, as in so quiet that I got more reading done there than I ever had in all my years of university and, quite possibly, my life, including that time I'd broken my leg and couldn't go outside for a while.

Then I'd start to wonder what she'd gotten up to at Mary's and how poor serious Mary was coping with the hurricane that is Lydia Britney Bennet. At times, when I was really frustrated, I thought longingly about being there with Mom and Dad and Lydia, having to do damage control but at least not feeling like a third—or, worse, a _fifth_—wheel. Lydia is many things, most definitely amusing, even if her behavior does make me cringe about half the time. Given that I had seeing Jane happy, Darcy's cryptic remarks, and the seemingly-too-good-to-be-true Caroline Lee as my limited amusements, I'd begun to miss Lydia's diversions, if only because she kept things exciting. And not knowing what to expect at Netherfield would've been a novelty.

Anyway, it was getting to the point where I didn't have a single free moment to hear myself think. If it wasn't Ricky barging in to ask me something or, worse still, lecture me about web video, it was my mother trying to set me up or encouraging me to ask Ricky if he had any single friends (as if! Who besides my mother could stand to even _be_ in the same room as Ricky Collins for more than thirty minutes?! I'm half-convinced that's the reason why his _mother_ moved to Florida in the first place!)... or Lydia pestering me about one thing or the other.

"Can I borrow your necklace, Lizzie? Or maybe those earrings? Even though your style's totally boring, I think I could make it work. Maybe if I added some more sparkles..." Cue the first of many eye-rolls and me wishing that summer was already over so I could at least get out of the house and away from the madness. To my sane, sort of university life where I could meet people who were in some stage of functioning adulthood... as opposed to Lydia, who enjoyed "spicing up her wardrobe" with the use of scissors and a bedazzler. Jane would shudder if she really knew how many pink sparkly crop and tube-tops that girl owns.

Or it would go something like this. "Lizzie! I _want_ to go to Carter's, and Jane's too busy getting Binged to come with! You know I can't drive myself! I **need** a DD!" And when I refused, her voice shot up in both pitch and volume, becoming a sort of intolerable, practically supersonic whine. "Come onnn, Lizzie! Just because _you've_ never had a day of fun in your life doesn't mean you have to prevent me from enjoying myself while I'm still young and pretty! _One_ of us has got to have a life!" All the affronted faces in the world make no difference to that girl.

No, she just made a face and carried on, rolling her eyes at me, drawing out every word just a little bit more to assault my eardrums. "I don't know why you won't be my DD, Lizzie. It's not like you even drink much anyway. Not with all your talk about "being classy, not assy" and "dignity" and "wanting to respect myself in the morning." No wonder you wouldn't know a go-o-od time if it bit you on the ass!" And yes, she actually said all of that complete with the airquotes. Thank you, Lydia, for reinforcing the slutty, crazy redhead stereotype.

Or Lydia grabbing one of my outfits, sometimes even right out of my hand. "Lizzie, you aren't _seriously_ going to wear that, are you? God, you're even more of a nerd than I thought you were. Please, just go back to watching Doctor Who or whatever it is you do all day, and let the Lee-Dee-Ya bring the sexy back to Meryton!" Cue me then trying to tell Lydia that sexiness is subtlety. "Subtlety is overrated! It's for boring people. People who don't know the pleasure of jello shots and the Seahorse position."

I don't even want to know what that position is. It sounds terrifying. Especially since... aren't seahorses some of the only males to carry their offspring?

My response was that peeing in public places, vomiting down flights of stairs, becoming a beer pong champion before her eighteenth birthday, having crappy sex in someone's basement at a party amidst the exposed pipes, loose floorboards, and beer-soaked ground, and making bad life decisions were not "pleasures" or badges of honor. When I tried to point out to Lydia that she could use a little subtlety and that most people don't speak in caps lock or say the first thing that comes to mind and express their selfish caprices and desires like a two-year-old-child, she just rolled her eyes, lipstick tube in hand. "You sound like my seventh grade health teacher, the one who couldn't even say penis." I refrained from saying that Lydia was one of the kids who had shouted penis and other charming words, such as chode, in said middle school health classes.

"Always going on about our bodies being our temples, and making us read out loud from Our Bodies, Ourselves," she continued, miming a throwing-up gesture that was all-too familiar. "And, see, _this_ is why you haven't gotten laid in, like, a million years-" She frowned a little, giving me a quizzical look, already trying the dress on and fluffing her hair. Predictably, it barely covered her ass. "Actually, have you _ever_ gotten laid?" God, she didn't have to say it with such disbelief! "You'd better loosen up if you don't want to die alone."

Then there were, of course, the requisite dreamy chats with Jane about Bing, which were cavity-inducingly-sweet and only served to remind me of my perpetual singleness. Being reminded of my inability to get a date or find a man, something that my mother, grandmother, and pretty much all my female relatives on my mother's side are inordinately focused on already (and, admittedly, something I am quite unhealthily fixated upon), is probably not great for my own mental health. I need a man like a fish needs a bicycle, but... it's kind of uncomfortable, a little, well... not quite like salt being rubbed in an open wound, but similar... to be reminded of my lack of luck with the opposite sex, as happy as I was to see Jane happy. Or, rather, the lack of worthy men. Yes, that's the problem. It isn't me, it's them. Healthy thoughts, Lizzie.

There were also the long chats with Charlotte as we edited and looked at viewer stats together, which I'd come to think of as a brief reprieve from the insanity of being a Bennet. However, in recent weeks, those chats I'd so looked forward to were increasingly invaded by Collins or (honestly, I'm not sure which one is worse) talk or thoughts _about_ Collins. I already have to see the guy virtually every day. I don't want to spend my precious free time, what little I have that he has not already managed to finagle his way into, talking about him and his doings!

I _know_ that Ricky is a nice guy at heart, somewhere... and that he means well, like Charlotte said, as much as he bugs the crap out of me. But it's an entirely different thing when you're presented with the same thing on a daily basis, repeatedly ad nauseum, and it falls to my lot to entertain him because Jane's busy with Bing, and Lydia is Lydia. Also, lately Mom's been winking at me and leaving the two of us alone in a room together with an alarming frequency. And, I mean, seriously, isn't he _engaged_ to someone? Does Mom actually think I want to be around a man who insists on calling me Miss Bennet (thanks for rubbing in my spinster future, Ricky) and expects everyone to address him as Mr. Collins, much less that I'm the sort of girl who would steal another girl's fiancé?

Guys don't leave their perfectly sweet and probably brain-damaged or deaf or extremely dimwitted fiancées (you'd have to be to deal with Collins. The woman who ends up with Ricky needs to have some special ability to tolerate him and, more importantly, tune him out. And that is an ability I do not have)... for a feisty, sassy, spirited (read: bitch-who-will-die-alone-and-never-catch-a-man... but I'm okay with that, really) girl like me. I'm not Helen of Troy. Men don't fight battles over me, and my face launches no ships. I don't really mind; that's just not my lot in life, and I would never want it to be.

Anyway, I just don't get why he has to keep coming _here_. I mean, what, does he think he lives here? It's like he's become the brother I never, ever knew I had or wanted. I mean, sure, I get that Ricky is probably lonely here all by himself, but he must have other friends... right? It's not like Charlotte, Lyd, Jane, me, and our parents are the only old friends still around. And why does he always have to be so damn excited about everything like some kind of puppy (also, like a puppy, I have this impending sense of doom that he's going to pee on the carpet in his enthusiasm)? And, dear God, how long does it take to pack up one home? Is his mother secretly an extreme hoarder or something? She cannot possibly have that much stuff!

Charlotte has a point, I'll admit that, albeit a very small one... but she doesn't live here, and she can just go home if she wants to escape Ricky. All her talking Collins up is kind of like when your parents or BFF, someone who's supposed to get you and be inherently on your side, starts talking up some guy you rejected or won't give the time of day to because, well... I mean, it's _obvious_! And you just kind of gape at them in incomprehension for taking the other party's side and completely ignoring how you feel about it, even though the other person isn't really anything to them.

Mr. Ricky Collins had invaded my Fortress of Solitude over and over and over, so that my bedroom was neither a fortress nor a place where I could get solitude. Lydia would say that the fact I even thought of my bedroom as a Fortress of Solitude said a thing or two about how my bed was as cold and empty as the North Pole, and, OMG, Lizzie, how antisocial are you?! Just because I didn't have a party in my bedroom... although, really, who brings strange men back to their _parents'_ house?

I was basically on the verge of permanently retiring to Dad's study, where it was quiet and peaceful, and, more importantly, no fools were allowed. No, seriously, Dad has a sign on his door, and the only person aside from me who dares to barge in and disturb him is my mother, and Dad only allows that once per day. Knowing Ricky, of course, he'd wise up (impossible, I know, for someone with such a lack of wisdom, but Ricky Collins is full of irritating surprises) and eventually find me there, barging in with such frequency that my father would be forced to either ban Ricky from the house or me from his study. Probably the latter to pacify my mother, who can never stand to see a man leave our house empty-handed.

So it was for these reasons that, when Ricky—excuse me, _Mister_ Collins—and Lydia were both badgering me with questions and demands and requests at the same time while I was attempting to film a video, I just snapped. I could only take so much, and I was lucky I managed to keep it PG by just saying NO and storming out. Just say "no," like a broken record... it worked for drugs, so maybe it would also... nope, probably not. Lydia doesn't really take "no" for an answer on a good day, and Mr. Collins... has difficulty listening to things others say. If I had stayed even a few moments longer, I might've snapped, and my viewers might've seen a very ugly side of me. A long, crazy Christian-Bale-worthy freak-out rant, with a red face and smoke coming out of my ears and eyes that had turned into lasers and maybe an accompanying sound like a tea kettle whistling and more swear words than even Lydia could handle.

When I stormed out, I kept walking, snatching up my bag and keys, not allowing myself to stop. I somehow managed to avoid my mother, despite the red haze tainting my vision, and I didn't stop speed-walking until I was outside and breathing the fresh air. Once outside, I leaned against the house and closed my eyes. Out in the sun, I felt like I could finally breathe. Sorry Charlotte, I thought, resting my weight there for a moment before I got up to stretch. I should've been thinking about what Charlotte was going to do to the video now that I'd left (she wasn't there. She'd had something else to do at the time). I should've been thinking about how long Lydia would be able to entertain Collins or whether she'd tolerate him better than I did, or even how much more likely she was to expose herself in front of millions of viewers.

And yet... all I was thinking about was the burning desire to get out of here. To leave the childhood home I'd missed for weeks and just go somewhere else, _anywhere_ else... somewhere where I didn't feel like a burden or a third-wheel or like I was in class getting lectured and having media terms crammed down my throat. Right then, all I wanted to be was anywhere but here, being weighed down and trapped in this life and the lazy days of summer in which I had so very little to look forward to. Nothing was new or surprising, really, just my sister's new relationship, the continuing saga of our financial difficulties, and the resurgence of Ricky Collins, who was proving to be one of those people you didn't just leave behind in high school.

At twenty-four, I kind of thought that I'd be doing a lot more with my life. I thought I'd have a plan. I thought I'd have a career. A life all mapped out. I thought I'd have a place of my own and, I dunno, that my life would be more exciting or romantic. Sometimes I thought (wished) that I'd be halfway across the world by now.

I sure as hell didn't think I'd still be living at home, perpetually boyfriendless, debating the wisdom of studying a major that even I could admit was mostly the ability to bullshit, still... struggling to eke out a living in the worst job market of my life. I sighed and straightened. Knowing Lydia's attention span, I didn't have long, no matter how persistent Ricky was.

A nebulous plan had begun to come together in my brain, of escaping home and the Houses at Longbourn Manor for greener pastures. I began to walk to my car, unlocking it, well aware that the sooner I did so, the lower the chances of Lydia stealing my car when I wasn't looking and stranding me at home with Collins. My sanity is more important than my video blog hobby, really. Besides, my not-so-loyal viewers seemed to love Lydia and, even, on occasion Collins. Or, at least, they felt sorry for him.

Jane was at work and, if not there, with Bing, who was probably studying. I started texting Caroline, telling her I was coming over and needed to escape the insanity as I settled into the car, adjusting the seat and mirrors from the last time Lydia had "borrowed" my ride.

It was a bit presumptuous of me, but I needed to go for a drive to clear my head and let some of the anger seep away so that I could think. The further away from my house I was, the less I felt like I had a giant weight on my chest keeping me down. Even if Caroline and Bing weren't around, I could still take a pleasant walk around their garden and through the woods at the back of the lot. I figured she'd be okay with me venting about Collins given how encouraging she'd been about my issues with Darcy, and, hey, maybe she'd actually get a laugh out of how pathetic my life was. She must, after all, be bored again now that it was just her, Darcy, and Bing, once again the only girl.

I drove in a fog, and it was kind of a wonder I didn't get in an accident. For my sake, I can only say that my anger sharpened my vision, and the driving soothed. Unlike Lydia, I don't text while driving, so I was already at Netherfield and in park by the time I looked over at my phone and saw that I had a text from Caroline. _Sorry,_ it read, _out shopping! I don't know when I'll be back, but feel free to wait and take advantage of all Netherfield has to offer. _I frowned a little but managed to smile anyway. It was so considerate of her to invite me to stay in her absence.

I pulled the keys from the ignition and stared over the wide circle driveway. Netherfield was a beautiful house, indeed. I still had no idea how Bing could afford it, much less to buy it... let alone why he'd chosen to name it Netherfield like it was some kind of field where nasty, wicked creatures dwelt. Surprisingly, I did not see Bing's cherry red luxury towncar in the driveway, so it seemed like I would be alone. My smile widened a little, and I realized I felt relieved that I would be alone in the big house. I love Bing, don't get me wrong, but some time to myself, maybe even by the pool, was just what the doctor ordered. I reached over to text Caroline back; _You are an angel, Caroline. :D I could definitely use a bit of time to myself. I'll tell you all about it later._

Grabbing my purse, I got out of the car, locking it behind me and making my way to the front door. I quickly spotted the rock where Bing insisted on hiding the keys, even though, as Darcy pointed out, anyone in their right mind would think to check the giant, completely conspicuous neon-colored rock by the front door. "It's like you're inviting thieves, Bing," he'd continued gruffly. Bing had only smiled and said that if someone went to all the trouble to drive out to his house and open the key rock that perhaps they needed the house and its various belongings more than he did. That was what he had insurance for, after all. I saw this as proof of his incredible and somewhat insane generosity.

Darcy, however, harrumphed and rolled his eyes and, naturally, proceeded to lock up all of his belongings after that because, "Bing, you have a younger sister to look out for. You can't just go around tempting fate, waiting for the world to prove you wrong. And even the ones who aren't criminals... how do you know who you can trust?"

I'd tried not to feel insulted or like he'd just intimated that Jane and I were not to be trusted (though maybe it also applied to himself). I'd also tried not to be offended at his patronizing and paternalistic tone. It didn't entirely work, but it got a bit easier when I realized what a sad and lonely life Darcy must lead, trusting no one, thinking everyone was going to betray him or stab him in the back. And then for a few seconds there was the wholly unpleasant and unsettling sensation of wondering _why_ Darcy had such strong trust issues, not that I really cared or anything, but... there had to be a reason, right? But, then again, wasn't _he_ waiting for the world to prove him right, that no one was to be trusted and that everyone really was as awful as he'd imagined them to be?

For a moment, I debated picking up the rock and going inside, but I decided I would better suited going to sit by the pool. We Bennets are a fair-skinned bunch, so I don't really tan, but sitting outside in the quiet and feeling the sun on my skin, possibly getting something cool to drink or dipping my toes in the water, seemed just about perfect. I turned and headed for the pool, glad I didn't have to be Lizzie Bennet, vlogger extraordinaire, mass comm major, and girl who has it all figured out for a few moments. Because if I pretend like I have everything figured out and I know what I want, then maybe I do, and maybe I really am that confident, brave girl I pretend to be.

When I was less than halfway there, I gave up and kicked my shoes off, stooping to scoop them up and breaking out into a run. The grass tickled my toes; the ground was spongy yet firm beneath my feet. I arrived at the pool a few minutes later, slightly breathless, slipping and sliding a bit on the grass. I was feeling so much lighter I even laughed a little as I made my way to the closest reclining chair, setting my shoes and purse on the table next to it, taking care to avoid the burning hot concrete. Ordinarily, I would've taken the time to read, but I was too tired to process much of anything, so I merely adjusted the chair, leaned back, and closed my eyes. It was so blissful to just shut my eyes and shut off all thoughts and worries.

Of course, it was not meant to last. I heard a splashing noise and cracked one eye open to glance at the pool. For a moment, I thought it was just the water circulating naturally, but then I saw a figure in the water. I opened both eyes, sitting up a bit straighter, and saw that the figure was doing laps. When I say swimming laps, I mean vigorously, like, pouring everything into it, as if the swimmer was in the Olympics or wanted to make himself suffer. The water churned ominously in the pool.

I watched the figure for a minute, but the water blurred the image so that I could recognize nothing beyond a blur of dark hair and pale skin. To my knowledge, no one had actually used the pool in the month I'd spent at Netherfield, which I'd always found a little strange. What's the point in having a pool if you're not going to use it? I grew bored after a minute or so of this, so I shifted on my seat and closed my eyes again. Sweet peace.

He had to surface at some point, and a few minutes later, as I'd begun to drift off a little, I heard a gasp. "Elizabeth!" The voice was breathless, a bit strangled, surprised, and annoyingly familiar; it was Darcy. I opened my eyes and straightened reflexively, looking out at him. Sure, I was a little surprised to see him, but there were only two people it could've been in that pool, and I'd known that deep down. What was harder to believe was the fact that Darcy wasn't inside on his laptop. I couldn't help but smile a bit at the sight of super-serious Darcy crouching down in the pool, hair plastered to his forehead, rivulets running down his face.

"William," I replied in a matching voice, albeit one that made me sound "together." Darcy visibly started at being called by his first name, and, not for the first time, I wondered why even his close friends addressed him by his last name. Had I ever said his first name out loud before? "Hi," I muttered with a little wave. "I didn't know you were going to be here." His rental must've been in the garage, then. I tried not to frown, thinking of how even this moment alone had been ruined by Darcy's presence. But, you know, as infuriatingly proud and obnoxious as he is, at least he's mostly taciturn.

He straightened a little in the water, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Sometimes I forget how tall he is because he's always slouching and trying to make himself unnoticeable. He then looked down, like he didn't want to look at me or something. Which is weird, because staring at me intensely is kind of Darcy's M.O. Maybe I'm just too repulsive for him to lay eyes on today. That's probably it. "Um... me either," he said. I nodded. Yeah, that was pretty obvious. He seemed to shuffle his feet and looked up at me. It was strange to see him go from being so coordinated in the water to this awkward, looming giant who didn't know what to do with himself. "What, uh... what brings you to Netherfield?" he stammered, a bit too quickly, "Bing and Caroline aren't here."

I stiffened. Thanks, Darcy, for making it clear that you don't want to be around me for even a minute and that I actually have no reason to be here without Bing or Caroline. William Darcy, the only person who can make me immediately feel unwelcome after speaking three sentences. The slight, strained smile I forced on my face fell at that remark. "Yeah, I did notice that," I said with blistering sarcasm, already starting to slide to the side of the chair. Oh, well. The few moments of solitude were nice while they lasted.

Darcy was still in the water, staring up at me, clearly waiting for me to leave. He was in the deep end, so the water covered him up to his neck. I let out a sigh and got up, resigned. God, I know I'm not your type of company, given that you prefer interacting with machines and yes-men, Darcy, but you don't have to be so eager to get rid of me. But I'll be out of your hair soon enough. "I can just go somewhere else. If I'm bothering you," I continued a bit tersely, already picking up my bag. Maybe I could go to the lounge or the library... I started to walk towards the house but turned, forcing a smile. "Enjoy the rest of your swim." I am nothing if not civil, folks.

"No, _**don't**_!" Darcy exclaimed, almost shouting, splashing in the pool. I froze, stopping dead in my tracks, and turned around to face him. There was a look on his face that was kind of akin to panic, though I couldn't think of a reason for him to be so alarmed... unless, of course, he thinks that me going in Netherfield means I'm going to rob the Lees. I would like to think that Darcy at least knows me well enough to think that I wouldn't rob someone, similar to how I dislike him immensely but don't think he's a thief (although I can see him stealing candy from babies and ruining other people's joy a la Debbie Downer, but still) but apparently I'm even wrong about that. He really does think the worst of people, doesn't he?

I realized a moment later that he'd swam right up to the edge of the pool since he was suddenly a whole lot closer. He cleared his throat, looking around almost nervously. "You're not, uh... bothering me, that is," Darcy blurted. I raised my brows, blinking at him, unsure how I was supposed to take this. "I was just... surprised, that's all." Darcy raised a hand out of the water, running his hand through his hair and pushing his bangs out of his eyes. He really did have much longer hair than I'd realized. "I didn't expect to see you here," he all but stuttered.

Yeah, I gathered that, douchenozzle; you ever figure I didn't expect to see you here either? I tried not to roll my eyes. What's the point of having rich friends if you can't go to their houses to escape the people who annoy you? I shrugged, setting my bag down and sitting back down on the chair, not taking my eyes off of him. I was sort of still expecting him to tell me to go away, thrown by his sudden 180 in personality. I still wasn't certain he actually had a personality, but if I didn't know better, I'd almost say he was trying to be... nice. Ugh, I can't believe I just thought that. Darcy. Nice. Does not compute. He mumbled something then, but I couldn't really understand him.

Uncertain of what he wanted or expected from me, I just gave him a polite smile and reached into my purse for the book that was waiting there. I hadn't wanted to read before, but compared to actually attempting to converse with Darcy, which was about as satisfying as talking to a brick wall, it seemed like a worthwhile activity. It had the added benefit of discouraging conversation. I opened the book where I'd set the bookmark, but Darcy's stare was burning a hole through my face. I looked over at him yet again; he was still in the water and staring at me.

Am I really that much of a trainwreck? There was something kind of expectant about his dark stare, and I suddenly remembered that he'd actually bothered to ask me why I was at Netherfield. I'd been a bit distracted at the time since he'd asked it in a way that was actually rather polite. "I just... needed to get away," I explained, fingers marking my place in the book. Since he was still staring at me and actually looking at me like he wanted to ask me something, and, honestly, the whole thing was really beginning to unnerve me, I cleared my throat awkwardly and kept talking.

"What about you?" I asked, injecting a bit of levity into my tone. "You're not chained to your computer." Apparently we were having a conversation now, and the most painless way of doing it would be just waiting until we exhausted our limited amount of subjects and the conversation died naturally. It shouldn't take too long. Fortunately for me, Darcy wasn't as verbose as Collins, and the only time he ever had a lot to say was when he disagreed with me on a point. I didn't intend to get in an argument with him, even if he decided to bait me; I didn't have the energy or the wits about me for such a tête-à-tête today.

Surprisingly, Darcy actually sort of smiled. Who knew that he had a hidden sense of humor, or that he could actually smile, even if he looked rather constipated while doing so. "I do occasionally take breaks," he replied. I gave him a look, remembering the many nights and days he'd been on his computer when everyone else was socializing or doing normal things, like watching TV. "Bing recommended it. He doesn't want me to get carpal tunnel syndrome from repetitive stress motions," he added a moment later, looking almost sheepish. I smiled against my will; that _did_ sound like Bing, always trying to look after everyone like a mother hen. As if to prove the validity of Bing's recommendation, Darcy cracked his wrist rather nastily.

That did sound sort of painful, though of course someone like Darcy would get carpal tunnel syndrome. I hadn't really seen many signs of the supposedly deep friendship Darcy and Bing had, but he obviously listened to Bing's worries. He couldn't be all bad if Bing liked him, right? Even if Bing likes everyone. Maybe Jane was right, and there were some things about him I wasn't seeing? Then again, Jane sees the best in everyone. Darcy could probably hold up a bank and shoot five people, and she'd still be trying to see the good in him and claiming he was just misunderstood or that maybe he had a reason, as if there was a reason for flipping out and going totally psychopath on innocent people. "Bing's rubbing off on you," I observed.

That expression that vaguely resembled a smile stayed on Darcy's face. He shrugged a little. "Maybe a little," he said, grabbing on to the edge of the pool and beginning to hoist himself up. He leaned his chest forward, pushing himself up so that he was sitting on the ledge and then shifting to a standing position. There was a languid, practiced grace to the movements. He had a lot more muscles than I realized. A lot more. Rippling ones. And then he was standing, and the water was cascading down his body and all those taut, wiry muscles... Oh, holy mother of... it was just not fair! Darcy is _not_ supposed to be this amazingly, mouthwateringly... It makes it just a little harder for me to hate him when he's so... damn.

I swallowed hard, trying to tear my gaze away from Darcy, who had never been more interesting than now, when he was silent and dripping wet and... Do **not** stare, Lizzie. Darcy will totally call you out on it, and you don't need him to—But just, _damn_, who knew he had a body like that, all perfectly proportioned, under all of those vintage clothes that make him look skinny and old before his time? Dear Sweet Lord, he had the abs of a sculpted marble statue, one that could seriously rival any of the swimmers I saw during Swim Week. Oh God, maybe he was a swimmer in college or high school or something. He probably was, given how comfortable he looked in that pool, which might explain why I thought he looked sort of familiar. Why did I have to run into Darcy in the pool? Anywhere but the pool because, out of all the guys, swimmers are the ones I most... Ugh, and aside from this whole pool thing, Darcy's not even my type!

Ugh, I wish he was still in the pool, covered with body-distorting water, so that I could think coherently. How can anyone expect me to have a conversation with him and those abs?! I don't even think I can even string a sentence together. I do not like being speechless, and, without even trying or doing anything, Darcy has gotten me to be literally reduced to this wordless, gaping state. Not staring at him is hard enough, and I'm already not even succeeding at that. But it could've been worse. At least I'm not Lydia, and I have self-control, and at least she's miles away back at home... or else she would be "all up on" that "hot piece of Aquaman-cake."

The washboard abs were probably the safest place to stare at, though the rest of the picture was just as... perfect. Darcy was wearing surprisingly plain-looking black swim trunks, but I tried to avoid looking at his lower body as much as I possibly could because it was already bad enough that I was checking him out, much less me checking out... his crotch. I would've expected something with paisley patterns or perhaps something in organic fair-trade batik, although perhaps getting wet and actually swimming is too un-ironic for people like him.

Darcy was talking and walking towards me, saying something about how nice the weather was that I was only half paying attention to. I nodded and kept trying to tear my eyes away from his body. I managed to at least raise my gaze to his face, but I was being Lydia-obvious and my face felt like it was on fire... if Darcy noticed, though, he surprisingly wasn't saying anything, but apparently my good opinion is really worth that little or... well, he's loaded and has a face like that, so women probably drool over him all day until they realize that he doesn't give a damn about them. One more bimbo staring at him slack-jawed probably doesn't mean much of anything to him.

I managed to tear my eyes away from Darcy's approaching form (thank God for small wonders!) to notice that there was a stack of towels next to me. Using what little presence of mind I had left, I grabbed one and threw it at him. I kind of winced when it wound up hitting him in the face. Darcy stopped in his tracks, carefully prying the towel off of his face. "Thanks," he muttered sarcastically, using the towel to dot his face and neck. I gave him the best (semi-)apologetic look I could manage before looking away and reopening my book.

Idle thoughts are the devil's playthings, as my mother likes to say. Mom went to a fire-and-brimstone-Baptist church growing up. In retrospect, that fact explains a lot of why my mother is the way she is, including her fondness for big hats, pearls, and probably also her insistence on us finding men. In this case, though, the phrase totally applied because thinking sexy thoughts about Darcy could only lead to bad things. Very bad things.

"Working all the time gets... boring," Darcy elaborated. I glanced up to see him vigorously toweling his hair, which was already starting to curl at the edges. "Even for me," he added a moment later with a bit of a lopsided smile, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice. I nodded dumbly, trying to drag my treacherous eyes away from the tiny droplets of water trickling down his chest and legs. He continued to drag the towel down his arms, then across his chest, back, and finally down his legs before wrapping it around himself. I watched out of the corner of my eyes, pretending to be more immersed in my book than I really was. Who knew Darcy was good for more than just having an opinion? I would've never considered eye-candy one of the things he was good for.

The words kind of swam across the page, but I supposed that was what I deserved for trying to read Anna Karenina just because the movie was coming out in a month or so. Although I kind of can't get over how Keira Knightley and Matthew McFadyen are playing siblings... that just seems wrong. Incidentally, if anyone ever makes a movie out of my life, I'd like Keira Knightley to play me. Aside from the fact that she kinda looks like me, she really knows how to give a production dignity, and my life could use a lot more dignity. Especially when Lydia and my mother are involved.

"You know what they say, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," Darcy quipped a moment later, wrapping the towel around his shoulders. He was shivering faintly, despite being in the warm sun. Then Darcy smiled, like, really smiled for the first time ever in a unironic, unmocking, and unjudging way... and half of me was thinking, "what is this, the Shining?" And the other half was wondering what he was smiling about, especially since he'd just spoken in a cliché, and I knew for a fact that Darcy hated that. He reached for a towel, shaking it out of its folds and setting it on the chair closest to mine.

I blinked, astounded that he'd want to sit next to me. The smile remained frozen on his face and that there was something sort of dazzling about it, about the way the light reflected off his still-damp skin and something about the look in his eyes, which glinted almost mischievously. And, more than that, I was astonished that he was still smiling. At _me_. What could I make of that? "Uh, yeah, I guess," I mumbled, watching Darcy very carefully as he sat down and leaned back in the chair, immediately making himself comfortable.

Somehow I felt like we'd switched places all of a sudden, that I'd become the silent one who avoided society and conversation, and he'd become social. Maybe Jane was right about him trying after all. Since we were alone (something in me prickled at the thought... I had never really been alone with him before), there was no reason for us to talk or socialize at all, no one to put on good faces for, no reason for us to pretend to tolerate each other. We sat there in silence for a moment, me reading my book (a rather dry passage about Anna's clothing) and him squinting up at the cloudless sky, no longer smiling but no longer looking quite as imposing either, though he was so tall that his feet hung over the edge of the chair. His body, long, almost gangly limbs and all, seemed to take up the entire chair.

It was pleasant enough but not quite comfortable. After a few moments of this, Darcy surprised me once again by breaking the silence. "Forgive me, I've completely forgotten my manners," he said a bit more formally. You have manners? Where have they been hiding? I wasn't aware "hostile silence" counted as having manners, but, then again... if you have nothing nice to say... I was beginning to think you'd been raised by a pack of lone wolves. Once again, his expression seemed a bit strained, and I could feel the effort it took for him to ask. But I wondered why he would bother being so civil when it was just the two of us. "How's your family, your sisters?"

I smiled a bit to myself, unable to help it. "They're doing well," I said shortly. He'd barely met my family, and I was fairly certain he didn't even remotely approve of Lydia, so... he could really only be asking about Jane. "Though," I added a moment later, "I daresay you see just as much of Jane as I do, if not more." There was a slight trace of jealousy in my voice that I couldn't entirely help, but Darcy seemed to catch it because he looked over at me and made a bit of a face, nodding slowly. I was not the only one who'd watched Jane and Bing make googly-eyes at each other and knew just how nauseatingly adorable it was.

He said nothing, evidently lost in his oh-so-brilliant and beyond-me thoughts, so I turned back to my book. Tolstoy wasn't always the most interesting guy, and I should've read a Jane Austen book instead if I wanted some crazy family drama to distract me from my own family messes, something like Persuasion, maybe. "You must be happy to be home," Darcy added haltingly, traces of uncertainty in his voice. Now that, that was a much more familiar tone than the low, more confident voice I'd heard him using before.

This time I didn't even look at him, though my mind was scarcely on whatever moral quandary Anna was having about her asshole husband. "Not as happy as you'd think," I muttered half under my breath, once again thinking about Ricky and Lydia and the coupon-cutting that doubtlessly awaited me at home. Oh happy day. As a bit of an afterthought, I muttered some sort of agreement.

"Why not?" Darcy asked suddenly, urgently. There was something piercing in that voice, the way it cut through the silence like a knife. He spoke right after I'd agreed with him. Maybe that's how he knew he was missing something: the fact that I'd agreed with him.

I glanced over at him, placing my thumb next to the paragraph my eyes had half-heartedly been perusing. Darcy wasn't supposed to hear that, so I bit my lip and feigned cluelessness. "What do you mean?" Caroline would've done it better. She's more artful than I am, better at concealing her feelings and pretending to be dumber than she is. Me, I'm not quite that subtle since, after all, I do still share half of Mom and Lydia's DNA.

Darcy's stare, when I chanced to meet it, was indicting. I only looked him in the eyes on rare occasions and never for very long; either when I caught him staring and he looked away or for brief moments during our equally brief conversations, a few times when we'd danced together at the Gibson wedding. So I hadn't known how very blue his eyes were, blue-green and deep like the ocean. Before they'd always seemed slate-blue, dark and smoky, like midnight even. "You said you weren't as happy as I'd think. Why not?" Darcy demanded.

There was a starkness in his voice and the way he'd said it that made me feel very uncomfortable, like he'd somehow seen through me. I felt kind of bad now, for saying that when it wasn't entirely true. That time I was the one looking away from his intense stare, shrugging a little. "It's just... _different_ than I thought it'd be," I told him, which was true, but I didn't want to get any more personal. Darcy gave me a look that said plainly that he knew that answer was a cop-out. I sighed in frustration but started talking in spite of myself; I never was able to resist any of Darcy's little challenges. "When you want something, you romanticize it a little and build it up in your head, so that... once it's finally there, in your grasp, it can't possibly measure up, and you're disappointed that it wasn't what you imagined," I explained softly, bending the corner of the page back and forth.

Darcy was silent for a long while considering this. I'd begun to realize, with impending horror, that talking to Darcy was more interesting than my book. Furthermore, it struck me that just talking to anyone, really, who didn't seem too busy or too dismissive or too scatterbrained to have a decent conversation was something I'd been longing for for a while without knowing it. And, out of all the people in the world, said conversation had to be with Darcy, though later I would suppose it would've had to have been since we barely knew each other, and I couldn't talk to him the same way I could with a real friend. I didn't have to guard my words or hide much because I was worried about him becoming concerned or asking questions that were too personal; it was a bit like a blank slate.

"Yes, maybe," Darcy said after a while. There was something heavy about his voice, the way he'd said it. He paused for a while, for a bit too long. I looked over at him, sensing he wanted to go on, indicating that, if he wanted to say something, he might as well just spit it out. Our eyes met once more, an entirely unsettling experience. He licked his lips, breaking the look, and exhaling deeply. "But... what if you finally get a taste of it, and it's... _better_ than what you expected?" he asked in a reedy, unsteady voice.

Despite my relatively pessimistic nature, that had rarely, if ever, happened to me. I had the feeling that Darcy and I were somehow having this conversation on different levels, and that we were completely misunderstanding each other... which probably happened a lot. Either that or we understood each other perfectly. Sometimes I just couldn't tell. "Then I guess you just got lucky." Predictably, it came out sounding unbelievably crass, though not as badly as it might've had Lydia said it.

His eyes widened almost comically, and I had to stifle a chuckle. Then he blinked, attempting to relax back into the chair, though something of the tenseness remained in his back. I turned back to my book, and Darcy got up a minute or so later, walking to the other end of the pool to grab some of his things. If my eyes traced his movements, strictly watching the way the muscles of his back flexed as he walked, he didn't notice. I admired his calves (which were _really_ nicely defined, probably from all that biking he did) briefly before shaking myself out of it, lest I also start staring at the backs of his thighs and his ass and the little indentations at the base of his spine... which was a gateway to eying the way his hipbones jutted out and then led to me thinking inappropriate thoughts, and I did _not _need to think inappropriate thoughts about Darcy. It's so hard to loathe someone with the burning intensity of a thousand suns when you're busy admiring his buns and having sexy little daydreams about him.

He winced and jumped a little, feet doubtlessly burned by the concrete, putting the flip-flops on first. He dropped the towel from around his shoulders and picked up a t-shirt in that bizarre shade of maroon or burgundy (merlot?) that they like to call Harvard crimson, even though _any_ shade of crimson I've ever imagined was a lot brighter and closer to the color of Lydia's hair and/or lipstick. Bing is particularly partial to the color and red in general, perhaps because he shares his name with a type of cherry, though I can't be sure. Unfortunately for my eyes and fortunately for my sanity, Darcy proceeded to slip the shirt on before walking back over to me.

I turned the page as he settled back into his seat, running a hand through his hair, almost as if he wanted a hat. Interestingly, I noticed that he was wearing plain black flipflops, the kind you could buy at the pharmacy or Old Navy for a few bucks, rather than the Sperrys or Rainbows I might've expected. Then again, I knew very little about the man himself, nothing but what I'd heard from the Lees. He rarely volunteered information about himself. All I knew was that he was wealthier than Bing and heir to that entertainment empire I can never remember the name of, that they'd gone to college together, and that he had a younger sister with a Twitter account. Oh, and all that I'd observed of him, i.e. his snobbery, abominable manners, distaste for anything mainstream, and the fact that he was always working.

A nagging thought tugged at me, and I found myself turning to him once more. What can I say? My book was really at such a dull part that Darcy seemed interesting by comparison. Plus I still had the feeling that I didn't exactly have him pegged, that I was missing some key detail that would make him finally make _sense_ to me. "Why were you doing laps earlier as if your life depended on it?" I threw the question out a bit too casually.

He started visibly at my words, the same way he had when I'd said his first name. Strangely, his cheeks reddened a little, the brightness of his cheeks standing out in stark contrast to his hair and skin. He rubbed the back of his neck absently, rolling his shoulders back. "I needed to think some things over. Swimming helps me get my thoughts in order," he said shortly, stretching lazily in his seat and staring out over the pool. Darcy does so love order. It struck me, though, that it was the first time I'd seen him ever not doing anything.

Even in Carter's he'd been on his phone half the time, occupied with work or texting Caroline, maybe even his sister, while nursing his local organic microbrew. I know that beer, though, and it tastes like peat and smelly feet, and... no matter how chill he tries to be, William Darcy will never be a beer-drinking kind of guy. He was obviously the guy at the frat party drinking white wine spritzers or Sazeracs, though of course Darcy's too much of a control freak to actually allow himself to get drunk. He might have fun if he did, after all, and he can't have that. Though, maybe the whole hipster thing is just his way of coping with his tragically corporate future. "Must be some big decision then," I remarked distractedly.

Darcy looked over at me, and the look on his face was completely serious all of a sudden. He nodded solemnly. "It is," he said significantly. I felt like I'd missed some weighty moment, that his comment had been infused with some kind of hidden meaning that had gone right over my head... which of course Darcy would notice and comment on.

More than a little confused, I jerked my head towards the pool. "I shouldn't have interrupted, then," I said seriously, glancing back at my book, feeling a little chagrined. I probably should've just left him to it, should've just left right then and there when I figured that I wasn't going to get much reading or relaxing done. But, for whatever reason, against my better judgment, I didn't.

He spoke nearly as soon as the words had come out of my mouth, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to correct me. "No. Actually, I'm... glad you did. It helps me... to get out of my head sometimes." He tried to smile again, but it came off looking weird again. Still, I looked over him, and he seemed to have been sincere about it, at least. I nodded quietly, understanding him a bit more than I wanted to admit. I set my book down finally, giving up on it and just staring out at the yard. A companionable silence fell over the two of us, not quite as comfortable as one we'd have with our actual friends, but... tolerable. I yawned, leaning into the sunlight, knowing the exposure would doubtlessly cause me to freckle further but not particularly caring.

"What's really going on at your house?" Darcy interjected.

My eyes had drifted closed but shot open when he broke the silence. Damn it, Darcy, you are more perceptive than I realized. I yawned again, inhaling deeply and trying to think of the proper words to say that would both satisfy his sudden curiosity and put him off further questions. "Well, you've seen my mother and Lydia..." I began, debating whether or not it was possible for me to explain the new strain in our household that even I didn't entirely understand.

I was suddenly thinking of the meeting with the bank I'd seen in Dad's planner. Mortgage meeting, it had said. He hadn't told any of us about it, not even me, which naturally served to make me feel A. nervous and B. somewhat betrayed. And also like some big ugly truth was going to come crashing down on us by surprise because our parents never tell us anything about financials. I could ask Dad to his face, and he'd still try to lie, even though I can see right through him.

Needing to get my own mind off such depressing matters, I brought up Collins. "Oh, and my fiancé from second grade has come back and decided to hang out with me like he's making up for lost time, talking my ear off. Like that means I'm obligated to listen to him. I'm even more sick of him than I was when I thought he had cooties," I quipped with a bit too much nonchalance. Ricky Collins, every bit as annoying as chicken pox or an allergic rash. I disliked Ricky, but telling Darcy that the guy couldn't leave me alone probably wouldn't end well. Darcy snickered, and I hated him a little bit but couldn't really blame him. Plus it was really weird hearing him make a laugh-like noise, even if it sounded like a glorified snort. "I couldn't deal with him and Lydia at the same time, wanting things from me."

Darcy's brow furrowed, no doubt quizzically. "What does this guy want from you?" he demanded, something akin to alarm creeping into his voice. What interest did he have in it anyway? Darcy was probably wondering what any guy would want from me besides the obvious, but I like to think that he knows I'm anything but easy. I like to think he's gotten at least that much from our little chats and the fact that I, unlike pretty much all the other women I'm sure he's ever met, have never thrown myself at his feet like I have no self-respect and just want land a rich man.

I shrugged helplessly because, well, _I_ was still trying to figure that out. That and what Collins' awful plan was that he wanted to include me in. And why he wanted that in the first place. Sometimes I thought that he might have a thing for me or something, but then I'd remember his fiancée and get all confused... Web video and home cooking really couldn't be his only incentives for creeping on me, could they? Darcy was still frowning, like that wasn't an answer. "Beats me," I said.

And then it hit me that I was justifying myself and explaining things to _Darcy_. That I was almost kind of CONFIDING in him, commiserating like we had things in common. Almost like we were friends. I wanted to be sick because the whole thing was just **wrong**, and clearly I must be insane and in some kind of bad emotional state to be telling Darcy these things... or I was just that pathetic that I didn't have any real friends I could talk to about this since Jane, Lydia, and Charlotte were too close. Was I really that hard up?

Though, in defense of my sanity, Darcy wasn't being quite as judgmental as I'd expected... and I already knew how everyone else would react. Charlotte would lecture me about the wisdom of not paying attention to Mr. Collins, like I should kiss his ass or something now because the only venture capitalist even more pompous and imperious and great at giving out unctuous unsought-advice was dumb enough to give that boob her money. Like I would use Mr. Collins for a career opportunity of _any_ kind.

Jane would say I wasn't being fair and that I ought to give him a chance. Naturally, I didn't want to do that because I already knew it'd be pointless, but that didn't matter to Jane. She'd give me one of those looks that made me feel like a total bitch and not good enough to even share the planet with her, and then I'd feel guilty. Sometimes the pressure of trying to live up to her goodness, her kindness, crushes me. Lydia was probably the only person who was as annoyed by Ricky as I was, but she was much more successful at shooing him off (and also ruder, but still).

It was a bit of a shame, really, since I wanted Darcy to actually agree with me here, since I knew he'd probably have a similar opinion of Ricky without even meeting him. And I knew Darcy was always good for some mocking and sarcastic comments and had no one to snark with since Caroline had gotten busy all of a sudden. I mean, I know how often I've complained about Darcy and all the things I say about him... and yet, the man is still better company than Ricky, bless his heart.

I can't even believe I thought that, but, in my defense... at least Darcy knows when to keep his mouth shut. I'd take his oppressive, judge-y, unsocial silence over Ricky's ceaseless jabbering about concepts he doesn't grasp any day. Darcy might be misinformed and a snob and a million other things, mostly unpleasant besides, but I could count on him for an intelligent conversation at the very least.

I reached back behind me to adjust the seat down further, reclining a bit more, putting my book back in my bag. I don't know what made me say it, maybe the sun was starting to get to me; I shielded my eyes from the sun to look up at the sky. It was a little past noon, and I had to get back and watch the video before sending it over to Charlotte. The weight of the _only_ obligation I'd had in months was crashing down on me like the waves of the ocean. "Haven't you ever just wanted to... escape?" I found myself asking almost dreamily, bringing my knees up and wiggling my toes.

Darcy looked over at me suddenly, dark blue gaze meeting mine. There was a flicker of something, a strange moment of kinship between us. "Why do you think I'm here with Bing, Lizzie?" he rejoined swiftly, brow furrowed. He held my gaze for a moment, utterly serious. Then again, he was always serious, so I probably shouldn't have been thrown by the comment, but I was. Darcy, ever a man "to abhor artifice of any kind (his words, not mine, most often used when expressing an unpopular or painful truth)," specifically the kind that largely consisted of little white lies to make others feel better and make social situations flow more easily, was generally honest and more often than not rather blunt. If he said something, he generally did mean it.

Yet it was strange how I knew immediately that it was the most honest thing he'd ever said to me. Perhaps it was the look on his face afterwards, the slightly haunted expression he hadn't been able to completely erase, like he ought not to have said that to me. Like even that was saying too much. There was something naked in that phrase that wasn't in any of the others, an undercurrent of something dark, something like pain... the echoes of something even Darcy had felt he had to leave behind, to get out from under him. And what could a man like him run from... what did he have to fear or pain him, when, by rights, he should have everything he wants?

I frowned, uncomprehending, subconsciously sitting up a bit straighter in the chair and turning towards him. "But you're not," I blurted thoughtlessly. Darcy's eyebrows shot up, as if to say, "oh, really, you think _you_ know me?" I didn't know him very well, but I knew enough to know that Darcy clearly didn't know the first thing about escaping. He was right to call me out on the presumption, but I was on a roll and couldn't stop. "You're too busy doing work and doing what you _think_ you should be doing to escape it. Whatever it is, you're dwelling on it, driving yourself crazy with it," I continued.

Burying himself in work and brushing people off, people who could help him... it's not an escape. It's his way of retreating from the world. It's like putting blinders on or burying your head in the sand. It's a quick fix, and it'll do in a pinch... but the problem's still there, on the forefront of his mind. Darcy was very still but attentive, strangely so. "I've never met someone who takes himself so seriously. You barely socialize. You pick at your food. You brush Bing off. You're so quiet all the time..." I ticked them off on my fingers, pausing to take a breath. If I'd paused to think of what these things added up to, maybe things would've been different, but attempting to figure Darcy out and connect the dots was like trying to do a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing.

"I've only seen you smile _once_," I added pointedly, raising my brows. Darcy looked down, no doubt realizing I was right about that, and the look on his face, well... it was almost like the thought made him sad or somehow disappointed in himself. There was something kind of pathetic about it, like he was a scolded schoolboy who didn't know any better. The expression was so out of place; the Darcy I knew was anything but helpless, and, of course, he had no flaws and didn't make mistakes, anyway.

He frowned a little, inadvertently proving my point further. When Darcy's face wasn't so expressionless it made me wonder if he had daily botox injections, he could usually be found frowning or staring intently at something. If his brows weren't knitted together in anger or mild irritation. I shook my head, and the words just kept spilling out, like thoughts half-formed. "It's like you don't know how to enjoy life... to just seize the moment..." I faltered a little, having lost my somewhat-scattered train of thought, and then I went on to say what I'd been working up to, what now seemed so obvious. "It's like you want to _punish_ yourself for something," I remarked somewhat incredulously.

Those were fateful words. I knew I'd hit a nerve when I saw him flinch. And, apparently, I was also right, but I didn't have time to ponder the significance of that. Darcy immediately glanced up at me, his eyes a dark, foreboding cobalt. He'd moved closer too, much closer, so that his face was perhaps little more than a foot away from mine, though I didn't notice at the time. Due to our great height disparity, Darcy hovered over me, forcing me to look up at him, which I did, undaunted. I tensed up reflexively, gearing up for an argument of epic proportions or a fight, probably one of the knock-down-drag-out variety. Intense emotions, that was what I was expecting.

What I got was quite a bit different. When Darcy spoke, he didn't sound angry at all. His face wasn't contorted into some sort of scowl, and blood hadn't rushed to his face. Something about him suggested agitation, and his brow furrowed a bit more, perhaps. His voice was cool and measured, crisp and clear, though perhaps the words came out a bit sharper and more quickly than usual. "And what about you? How much of that attitude of yours is a defense mechanism, Lizzie Bennet?" Darcy retorted, giving me a look.

Touché. He'd full-named me, and it was almost like getting lectured by my mother or a teacher, and, likewise, something in me roiled up at that. I moved closer too, pointing at him. "You're one to talk, Darcy!" I snapped, uncomfortable that Darcy actually knew something _real_ about me, much less something that very few people know. Making jokes and quips and laughing it off, appreciating life's little follies and ironies... that's my coping mechanism. Charlotte has her rationalism, Darcy has his antisocial personality, Jane has her optimism, Bing has his kindness, Lydia has alcohol, and I have laughter.

I sighed deeply, trying to push aside my frustration, lest the argument degenerate into some childish shouting match. Something like that would be beneath Darcy, of course, so he'd just stand there, but I knew from experience (with Lydia and other people who'd managed to work me up to the point where I couldn't utter coherent sentences) that hair-pulling and childish shouting matches were not beyond me. My mental state being what it was, I didn't want to work myself up into a fury I didn't have the energy for. I felt a droplet of water land on my dress and glanced from it to its inevitable source: Darcy's wet hair. Then I drew back as if burned, alarmed at just how close we were. We were almost breathing the same air, close enough so that I could feel the ghost of his breathing.

I looked down, forcing myself to lean back in the chair. Just looking at Darcy had a way of making me even _more_ furious sometimes when faced with all of his apparent (and smug) "perfection." The fact that I could now make out the outlines of his muscles beneath the slightly-damp shirt and rapidly-drying swim trunks and, further still, the fact that I knew what he looked like dripping wet and flexing only would only worsen the effect further. "Look, Darcy, I'm sorry. That was out of line," I said quietly, playing with the hem of my dress demurely, the way Jane would if she had any nervous tendencies or the ability to easily offend people.

Then Darcy really surprised me. I could see how tight his jaw was, how rigid he'd gone since I'd started speaking, and I'd supposed that he must be very pissed off. He was silent for a few seconds. "You don't have to apologize for being right, Lizzie. Or for saying things you don't think I want to hear," he said swiftly if a bit stiffly. It was a much more liberal viewpoint than I expected of him. The unfathomable had occurred; Darcy had said that I was right rather than merely silently acknowledging it. Though I suppose that is not unfathomable. Proud, arrogant, know-it-all Darcy admitting that he was **wrong** or, worse, _**mistaken**_ would be unfathomable, and I would most assuredly never live to see _that_ day.

At that point, I could've probably asked Darcy what he was escaping from. I could've tried, at least. I don't entirely know why I didn't. Maybe it was out of a desire not to prolong an awkward conversation any further, or maybe I just didn't care. I certainly didn't think he'd tell me, didn't expect him to open up, so maybe I just figured it was best not to bother. Or, just maybe, I was afraid whatever he'd tell me would force me to change the way I saw him. But it wasn't just me, either; Darcy didn't tell me what I wouldn't ask.

I almost started a little myself when he said my name. He didn't do it much, usually only to draw my attention when he was trying to lure me into an argument or, as we like to call them, a conversation. Darcy and I can never have a conversation without it being A. incredibly stilted and uncomfortable and resulting in an awkward silence or B. more on the vehement side and ending in an epic battle of wits and bon mots (yeah, so I was an English major in undergrad).

His voice wasn't cool at all; instead it seemed to express some kind of warmth, something like respect. I looked over at him properly, but he was wearing that familiar poker face again, even if it seemed a bit more open... he was inscrutable once more, but he didn't seem angry at all.

I decided to take him at his word. "Well, if I did that, I'd be apologizing for just about everything..." I replied in jest. Darcy looked a bit confused, so I licked my lips and adopted a different tack. I adjusted my dress over my knees as primly as I could to distract myself. "But, seriously, I definitely overstepped my bounds there. And you're right... I don't know what I'm talking about." I fought the urge to cringe; being nice to Darcy was awkward enough without me conceding ground to him because I felt strangely guilty. Probably because I always want to be the bigger person when it comes to Darcy.

Darcy's eyes narrowed a little, and he frowned, solemnity settling over his face. I stared back at him, wondering in passing if I could ever intimidate him the same way he always tried to intimidate me. Apparently I could, since he deliberately looked away after only a few moments of our impromptu staring contest. He tugged at his shirt, staring over the water, a far-off look in those distant and cold blue eyes. "I think we both understand each other more than we realize, Lizzie," he remarked quietly, continuing to smooth out the wrinkles in his shirt.

Thanks to faint droplets of pool water and perspiration, the shirt clung to parts of his body more than others, and Darcy adjusting the fabric only made that more apparent. I looked away, swallowing hard. What could I say to that? It was the third time he'd said my name, and it was beginning to weird me out. What was up with all of his sudden concern and the personal questions? Why would he bother to feign interest when I've given him at least three outs, and he hasn't taken any of them? More importantly, why didn't he _take_ any of the outs?! Why was Darcy _so_ determined to have a (decent) conversation with me? Was it that thing I said at Bing's party about the art of conversation in getting yourself a date? Does Darcy actually listen to the things I say?

I was staring at the deep end, half of me wanting to dive into the water and maybe drown myself a little so I wouldn't have to continue this painful and strange conversation. I'd always had an affinity for water, particularly rain (not that it _ever_ rains here), and I'd forgotten how much I missed simple things like swimming or going to the beach. Darcy sighed heavily, snapping me out of my reverie. I tried to resist the urge to look over at him, but the deep blue depths were trying to hypnotize me to sink down into the waters against my better sense, so I glanced over at him. "I miss my sister." His voice was quiet and soft as I'd never heard it before, something of longing on his face. I found it very, very hard to hate him when he looked like that.

That had given me a few more puzzle pieces, but I was still missing something. I was silent for a moment, thinking of the right words to say. It was hard to be away from my family and sisters, too. The longest I'd ever been away from them was a few months at summer camp, and my thirteen-year-old self had bitterly missed Jane and my parents, and, even, in a particularly low moment, Lydia. I licked my lips, shifting in my seat. "Well, I'm... sure you'll see her in a month or so, right?" I added. As I said it, I paused, wondering ominously what that meant for Jane and Bing.

Obviously some part of me knew that they couldn't stay forever, but I'd never thought of what would happen when they left. I didn't even know where any of them had come from, only that Bing would be headed back to Cambridge for another year of school. But now I started to wonder... what would happen to Jane when Bing left? She was getting attached to him... and most relationships end in break-ups so... Darcy nodded quietly, perking up a bit. He wasn't quite smiling or anything that extreme, but he was sitting up straight. He said nothing, but I felt obligated to say something, to try and engage him. "How old is your sister?"

Darcy looked over at me, his expression softening and becoming less guarded. I'd heard a bit about Gigi, nothing too specific, mostly from Caroline, though I didn't get the impression that Caroline knew Darcy's sister as well as she liked to think she did. Despite his many faults, Darcy at least seemed to be a good brother, considering that he spent most of his free time either talking to Gigi or writing her. And I can't mock, hate, or ridicule him for that. No one who cares about his sister that much can be a completely bad person. In a way, I suppose it proves a bit of Jane's point in looking for the good in everyone, that maybe you just have to look deep, deep down enough, practically on the microscopic level to see it. So there it was; Darcy could be a decent enough person, theoretically, but that was never the guy I saw.

I glanced over at him, frowning in contemplation. I don't deign to think that Darcy even condescends to wonder what I think of him, and I don't especially care... but I do wonder why he goes to such extremes to make people dislike him? He can't enjoy being hated and potentially misunderstood unless he's a total misanthrope... but he doesn't talk or join in on activities often, and he carries himself with such an insufferable arrogance, relishing in it, like the disdain, dislike, and disinterest of us common folks suits his purposes just fine. But, then again, if he truly hated everyone, he wouldn't be friends with anyone even half as perky and chirpy and sunshine-y as Bing; he'd barely be able to be in the same room with him, much less tolerate him for years. It can't just be me who sees this.

The man in question snapped me out of my thoughts, and I was glad my gaze had drifted away from his face and towards the grounds instead. "Gigi's about the same age as your Lydia, give or take a year or two," he said. He ran a hand through his hair, which was already drying into fluffy, frizzier waves. He frowned in distaste, and I wondered if he was so vain he wished he had a mirror so that he could be sure his hair would fall in just such a way, perfectly tousled. Because God knows people like him hate being try-hards, no matter how much effort they put into pretending they don't give a damn about anything.

My brows lifted in surprise; Darcy actually knew more or less how old my youngest sister was? I stifled a grin, intending to tell Lydia that she'd attracted even a sliver of Darcy's notice. While the thought of her trying to nail Darcy was somewhat horrifying, it was also beyond amusing, and I was interested to see if she had any serious objections, given how she did think he was hot. Lydia isn't very... discriminating when it comes to men, and, though I was certain she found Darcy far too boring (and, well, Lydia isn't one to fool around with a guy who insulted her sisters) for her tastes, she has definitely done things with guys for shallow reasons. Such as their hotness, purported skill between the sheets, and ability to buy her nice things. Darcy had been pretty good at avoiding Lydia's drunken attempts at flirtation, to my endless amusement, and I almost wanted to see him scurrying out of her way again.

The thing that really struck me as being strange was that Darcy didn't take the opportunity to brag about his sister. She did seem to be the very definition of the "truly together" woman he'd been harping on about, at least by Caroline's accounts... and if arrogant Darcy had had _any_ role in her success, why wouldn't he praise his own flesh and blood and himself by extension? A few strands of hair fell into my face, and I idly tucked them behind my ear. "You two are close?" I asked curiously, feigning interest.

Darcy nodded, smiling faintly. "Like you and Jane." His brow furrowed a little, as if that wasn't quite right. It probably wasn't, considering their considerable age difference. He picked something up off of the side table and started turning it over in his hands. A flash of light reflected off of it. Intrigued, I leaned in a little closer to see what it was. Darcy noticed and startled a little, his fingers stilling. He stared at me for one long moment before his eyes fell lower, burning my arm like a bad sunburn. I leaned in a little further, seeing that he was holding a watch, the fancy, vintage one I'd seen him wearing a few times.

I heard a sharp intake of breath, so I drew back, my curiosity satisfied. Darcy was still giving me an odd look, so odd, in fact, that I began to wonder if there was something on my face. I'm probably freckling as we're sitting here, so maybe he's just confused by the sudden appearance of freckles on my face, bored of scrutinizing yet another of my many imperfections. "Maybe closer," he amended. I blinked, wondering what he meant by that. Jane and I are best friends, and we tell each other everything. How could Darcy and his sister possibly be closer than we are? He blinked too, keeping his eyes closed for a moment too long, his expression briefly choked with emotion. Then he opened his eyes and his face was blank, unlined, and untortured once more.

He acts so... not quite robotic, more like an android, a machine pretending to be human with all his stilted diction and snobbery, that I sometimes forget that Darcy is a _real_, live, breathing person. Just like me and Jane and everyone else. A wave of pity pr... something... overcame me then. I can't really account for it, but I felt bad for Darcy and for how lonely he looked and how he missed his sister... even though his loneliness is so totally his own fault and, well, I suppose having compassion for him makes me a better person than he is, right?

Next thing I knew, I'd reached out into the space between us, not the figurative gulf, but the literal less-than-a-foot-or-so, and I'd placed my hand on his shoulder. Darcy jolted at the touch, as did the part of me that wondered just what the hell I was doing but was unable to stop myself. Surprisingly, though, he didn't shrug my hand off. He merely stared at me, all confusion. I can't blame him; I didn't know what I was doing either. "I'm sure she misses you too," I murmured, my voice softer and more welcoming, more sympathetic than I meant it to be, as if I were comforting a small child. I hesitated for a moment, his first name strangely on my lips, on the tip of my tongue, but I held back—for reasons still heretofore unknown to me, no one ever referred to Darcy by his first name.

I squeezed his shoulder then, feeling the firm and wiry knot of flesh and bone underneath my fingers, simultaneously fragile and solid, kneading out a little of the tenseness there. He wasn't at all cold, not like he looked; no traces of the chill from the pool that had had him shivering a little earlier remained. His eyes widened almost comically, but he merely stared at me with this unsettling mix of astonishment, something almost wounded, and, perhaps, embarrassment. And of course it was his laser-pointer stare, the intense one that practically burned my retinas and my face off. My fingers stilled their motion as I began frantically trying to think of a way to extricate myself from the situation. He probably didn't like to be touched, much less by people like me, and I should back away and apologize and then beat a hasty retreat.

Yet I stayed there, frozen for a moment. Then Darcy blinked (I didn't even know he did that!), relaxing under my hand, and it was like I could move again. I forced a crooked, conflicted, awkward smile, hoping my face wasn't as red as my hair, and transitioned it into awkwardly patting him on the shoulder once and then twice. He leaned in towards me, evidently intent on saying something, such as telling me not so politely to get out of his space. I started to draw my hand back, feeling even more uncomfortable and hot. Aside from that dance and the several times I'd awkwardly brushed past him around Netherfield when he was standing a little too close for comfort, parts of our bodies in awkwardly contact for a few brief moments, I hadn't really touched him before. I hadn't wanted to either.

But Darcy didn't let me pull back. Before I could completely remove my hand from his person, he'd stopped me. His hand dwarfed mine, and I froze again, brow furrowing as I looked up at him. Just what did he want from me? His eyes, however, were heavy-lidded, his expression somewhat dreamy, eyes bright as if with fever but strangely clear. His movements were sluggish, as if he was loathe to be bothered moving away, dragging his feet. It was like he was in an entirely different world, or if he'd been bodyswapped with someone who wasn't made of stone. He looked sleepy or maybe a bit faint, given the faint flush on his face. "Marry me, Lizzie," he all but whispered. It was more of a breath, a caress, than a statement or a question. His grip tightened on my hand as he said it. There was even something yearning to his expression.

If it were anatomically possible, my jaw would've literally dropped to the floor. As it was not, my jaw merely went slack and I gaped at him like the slack-jawed yokel he no doubt thought I was. He could not have said what I'd just thought he did. My ears were clearly playing tricks on me because that... what I heard... makes no sense. Darcy doesn't even like me. And I don't like him! So clearly that is not what I just heard. Darcy is not the kind of guy who... does stuff like that. He's not spontaneous, and the man clearly doesn't have a romantic bone in his body (apparently Bing has never known Darcy to have a girlfriend?), so, despite his looks, he's not going to suddenly become some sort of charming Colin Firth period-romance-hero in the span of five seconds. Not _even_ if he comes out of the water completely shirtless!

He was watching me again, and if he was a dog, I'd have said that his ears were pricked in interest. The look of disbelief on his bright red face probably mirrored my own. I couldn't move. I was literally paralyzed, trying to make sense of it, especially since I just about had a heart attack noticing how close we'd suddenly gotten. And the way I pretended not to notice Darcy's gaze falling to my lips for the barest of moments, or the way he pursed his lips just a little. Or how smooth and cool his hand was, soft despite still being slightly waterlogged.

I stared right into those smoky blue eyes, and... I'm ashamed to admit it... For a fleeting moment, a moment of weakness and dubious mental health, I thought about kissing him when he looked all vulnerable, kinda like a dear in headlights or a rabbit about to be mowed down by one of those riding lawnmowers. He just... Darcy looked like a real boy, okay? I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to kiss him, to press my lips to his. Kissing wasn't really a big deal, after all, and my thoughts were G-rated, for crying out loud, except for that part where I wondered if he was good at using his mouth and his tongue for anything other than snark, sarcasm, and snootiness (the Darcy trifecta)!

But I still felt dirty.

I started making up excuses almost the minute it crossed my mind. It had been a while since I'd kissed anyone, way too long; Lydia was right about me and my lack of manly action. Objectively speaking, if you forget about his personality, he's handsome, hot, and I've seen his abs... and I'm perpetually single, and a girl's got to dream, and he's more or less the only guy I've seen this summer who wasn't into my sister, Collins, or a skeezy drunk swimmer trying to get some. Oh God. And I'd sorta been close to him at the Gibson wedding, when we were swaying together like we were at a middle school dance (sadly, Darcy had been the only single guy I'd danced with at said wedding. We have _way_ too many married and engaged childhood friends). And I wondered if it would be like that, if it would be awkward or not so...

Then I just thought it because of all the times I'd wanted Darcy to shut up and stop voicing his irritating opinions, but I'd wanted Collins to shut up even more and I hadn't even contemplated kissing him since that weak moment in second grade. Before my thoughts degenerated any further into madness, I shook it off, my entire brain screaming at me, asking me what I was thinking. I blinked, finally finding the words. "_**What**_?!" I cleared my throat, realizing that had come out hoarse, sounding like a bit of a bark. Or I'd actually just about screamed at him; I tried not to cringe. "I mean, what did you say?"

Darcy snapped to attention, his gaze flying back up to my eyes. I looked away, startled, and then his hand was flying off of mine as if he'd been burned. I drew back and removed my hand, setting the traitorous appendage in my lap and trying to scoot away from Darcy. Who I was having trouble looking at for whatever reason. He cleared his throat so vigorously it sounded like he was hacking up a lung. "Nothing," he said quietly, looking utterly horrified.

At that revelation, I rolled my eyes and gave him a look, now able to face him again. If my face was the surface of Mercury, his was the pulsing nuclear core of the sun. Minus the literal pulsing. Darcy's eyes darted around anxiously. He swallowed hard, taking a deep breath, and forcing himself to look me in the eyes. "I uh... I said bury-berry me..." He rubbed the back of his neck, cringing a little. I gave him a quizzical look; what was he trying to say? "Very, uh... very busy? Are you, uh, very busy this summer?" he stammered. I wasn't wholly convinced, but that, at least, made more sense than what I'd thought I'd heard.

Darcy asking me to marry him? Yeah, right, maybe when pigs fly or the day Ricky decides to become a mime! Even the thought, the terrifying, ridiculous thought, was ludicrous and laughable. But it would've been rude to laugh at Darcy then when he seemed so discombobulated. Nonetheless, I let that pass and shrugged.

Suddenly antsy, he shifted like he wanted to get up out of his chair. "I'm thirsty. Are you thirsty?" Darcy stuttered, speaking faster than I'd ever heard him, barely able to get the words out. He straightened, looking like he was going to bolt at any moment. I just looked at him, and he kept babbling. "Bing got some berries recently... strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, cherries..." Several of those weren't exactly berries, but I let that slide. He was rubbing his hands on his thighs almost compulsively.

How I managed not to burst out into hysterical laughter, I don't know. Darcy's eyes were darting around like he was on drugs. Kinda reminded me of Mom off her Xannies or Lydia when she's off Adderall. "You like berries, right?" I nodded slowly, wondering where he was going with this. It seemed like he was only digging himself deeper into this strange hole of his own making. "Do you, uh, do you want any? Refreshment? There's fresh lemonade too, if you want. I know you like the pink kind." I blinked, surprised that he knew about my lemonade preferences.

Darcy was already starting to get up, looking decidedly jumpy. I was actually kind of thirsty, and I'd opened my mouth to ask him to bring me something when a very familiar and danceable song filled the air. The very kind of catchy summer hit that Darcy McHipsterFace hates. While I enjoy a good pop tune, the girly ringtone was not my doing. No, that was all Lydia. She was fond of changing my ringtone to whatever embarrassing song most amused her at the moment. At one point it was "Don'tcha" by the Pussycat Dolls, "Solja Boy" at another, still another time "Blow" by Ke$ha, "Lady Marmalade" for a while, "Roxanne" after we'd had an argument... with bonus points for every song that I personally hated with a passion.

I hadn't changed it because I was not quite secretly fond of the song, and because it was a lot better than the time Lydia set "Don't Trust Me" as my ringtone for her. Or the year I was stuck with "Who Let the Dogs Out" until I figured out how to remove it. So this one was tame and humane by comparison. "_Hey, I just met you, and this is __**crazy**__... but here's my number, so call me maybe! It's hard to look right at you, baby... but here's my number, so call me maybe!"_

Lydia calling me generally means something bad is happening, so I scrambled and just about fell out of my seat in my haste to answer it. I heard something behind me that sounded suspiciously like Darcy snickering at me, probably my musical taste but maybe also the fact that I nearly killed myself in answering my phone. Though he shouldn't have laughed considering that awkwardness with him and the fact that it meant I was so desperate to get out of his company that I was jumping when my baby sis called. Anyway, I figured it was probably another Collins crisis, and she was probably calling to tell me that she'd done something crazy to Collins (such as killing him or seducing him or God only knows what), and maybe she needed me to fix it.

I turned away from Darcy to take the call. "Hey, Lydia. What's up?" Hopefully he hadn't heard the trepidation in my voice. "How's the, uh... situation?" I didn't dare to glance back at Darcy, which was probably a bit rude, but it was becoming clear to me that I needed to get away from Netherfield and Darcy before I lost the rest of my mind. I would pretend Lydia or Mom needed me at home, make my excuses, and leave quietly and quickly.

Lydia let out a loud cackle. "I took care of your little problem. Ricky won't be coming back for a while," she announced with a self-satisfied air. She sounded very certain of this fact, more sure of it than she ought to be. Now, I get that my sister is anything but subtle, and that you practically have to bash him over the head with it. My eyebrows shot up. What had she done?

"Why not?" I asked cautiously.

"Let's just say he got a little more than he bargained for, finishing your vlog with me," she said deviously. That sounded particularly ominous, so I was fully prepared for more cackling. I opened my mouth again to ask, since she sounded a bit like a serial killer and could be a bit careless, but Lydia beat me to it. "Trust me, Lizzie, you don't want to know." She was probably right about that. "But you'll see," she amended a moment later, sounding immensely pleased with herself. It took me a minute, but I gathered that she probably meant I'd see it when I watched the rest of the video before sending it off to Charlotte for editing. Lydia exhaled irritably—and loudly. "You know, Lizzie, this is the part where you're supposed to _thank_ me," she interjected pointedly.

"Thank you, Lydia," I replied dutifully. I couldn't really believe it, but I was grateful. I'd thank her later in person. Maybe I'd even drive her to the mall. I might give her a couple dollars to buy something pretty if she's right about Ricky not dropping by for a few days. A Collins-free weekend would be ideal (but unlikely). "Thanks for putting up with him. I'm sorry I kinda left you there," I added when I could feel the guilt creeping up on me. Lydia's still my sister, and I shouldn't have left her alone with the creepily persistent Ricky Collins, even if she's annoying and more than a match for him.

"_Please_, Lizzie. You think I liked him being constantly underfoot and trying to lecture me on my life choices and the way I presented myself professionally?" Lydia retorted. I stifled a snort, thinking of those few times Collins had inadvertently equated my sister with a prostitute and had apologized profusely. Or those other times when he'd complimented her clothing choices in mildly insulting and kind of creepy ways. "The Lee-Dee-Ya is _way_ too hot for Ricky Collins to handle," she added cockily. I almost cringed, thinking of Ricky trying to "handle" my baby sister in any way.

Furthermore, her mocking intonation of Ricky's name reminded me all too much of my own. I try to forget this sometimes, but Lydia and I are actually very similar. I mean, I have tact and maturity and self-control, but, still... we're both far more like each other than either of us are like Jane. "Where are you, anyway?" Lydia asked a moment later. I looked around Netherfield self-consciously, hoping I wouldn't have to answer. "Mom's noticed you're missing, and she's kinda bummed that Ricky's not gonna be here for dinner, complimenting her cooking. She's going to make a frozen pizza." I frowned a bit at that. Mom only heats up frozen pizzas when she's depressed about something.

Once again, Lydia continued on stridently before I could even respond. "You better not be at the mall or having any fun without me, Lizzie, or I'll tell Mom you're out speed-dating!" she threatened. Lydia's threats are never (or rarely ever) empty, but her telling Mom I was out meeting men would be a lot more drama than I was willing to put up with. So help me, if I have to be treated to one more lecture entitled "How to Catch a Husband," I won't be held responsible for my actions.

"Who speed-dates in the middle of the afternoon?" I responded incredulously.

"Those It's-Just-Lunch professionals with no lives!" she replied immediately. With that remark, I couldn't help but look over my shoulder at Darcy, who was, of course, staring at me very intently. I'd felt his gaze burning a hole into my back from virtually the beginning of the conversation, but it was much more unnerving to actually see the way he was looking at me. He held my gaze for a moment before awkwardly looking away and pretending he wasn't interested.

He was only eavesdropping because I was the only entertainment to be had at Netherfield outside of the water... but the staring... why does he always stare at _me_? I'm not that fascinating, and he thinks I'm just "decent enough" and, oh yeah, he doesn't think I'm pretty or anything, but you'd think he already knew my faults by now well enough to stop constantly scrutinizing me! I'm not the only one who notices it either, but it's weird to me that no one calls him on it!

I sighed, turning back around. "I'm at the library, Lydia." I don't know why I lied to my sister, but I had a feeling she'd have something ridiculous to say if I told her I was at Netherfield sitting poolside with Darcy (and given how that sounded when I just thought it out, maybe she'd be right to say it!), and I didn't want to encourage her.

I can just imagine it now: "Why don't you get him to help rub some sunscreen on your pale ass, Casper?" Or maybe she'd say something like this: "Let me get this straight... you two are sitting by the pool _just_ _talking_? What a waste of hot mancake. And, Lizzie, you gotta get a piece of that cake while it's still hot, amirite? Sure he's got a stick so far up his ass I'm surprised he craps at all, but he's loaded and probably hasn't gotten laid in _years_. So, hello, why have you not gone the whole I-want-to-go-swimming-but-don't-have-a-swimsuit-here route? Skinny-dipping pool hook-up, f-t-dubs!" Or perhaps it would be a bit more subtle: "You two are both hot and single. You have the house all to yourselves for a couple of hours and crazy unresolved sexual tension. Why don't you get him to show you his bedroom already?"

Perhaps there would be the predictable, more pedestrian inquiries about how hot he looked shirtless. Either way, telling her I was at the library was the fastest way to bore her to tears, even though she'd undoubtedly tease me about being a nerd because of it. Better a nerd than any of what I just imagined her saying and my probably incoherent, mortified reaction to it.

I could sense her rolling her eyes as she spoke. "God, even when you _finally_ do something dramatic, you ruin it by being a total nerd!" Lydia exclaimed. "Don't tell me you're in that weird foreign books aisle again!" Everyone has a particular spot they draw comfort from, a place they feel at home and at piece that is not always their actual home... a home away from home... Mom's is the kitchen, Dad's is his study, Jane's is at her sewing machine or amongst racks of fabric, Lydia's is the mall... and mine, well, mine is the library or the Young Adult aisle in a bookstore. Away from the Twilight books, though. "Anyway, you should get home and send the video to Charlotte if you wanna upload it in time," Lydia reminded me.

I straightened up a little. At least she'd finally given me the out I needed, even if I couldn't tell Darcy exactly what I was going to do in order to make my little escape. "I will, Lydia."

Apparently I wasn't convincing enough, because my little sister went on, "Maybe if you get here soon enough you'll be able to stop me from making you an online dating profile." My eyes widened in horror, and I snatched up my purse. Trying to talk Lydia out of doing something was nigh impossible, but I would hopefully be able to intercept her. "I'm currently debating between eHarmony, , Zoosk and, ooh... OkCupid sounds so perf for you!" I winced. Online dating was something I did not yet want to subject myself to, especially hook-up central OkCupid. I definitely needed to stop Lydia before it was too late.

"Don't you _dare_, Lydia! I'll be home in less than ten minutes, okay?" I replied, already starting to get up. Lydia hung up the phone without saying goodbye. She does that just because she knows it annoys me. And because she thinks that goodbyes are wastes of time. At least on the phone. I turned around once again and met Darcy's expectant stare.

The pavement burned my bare feet. I frowned down at them; I never did get to put my feet in the water, carefree like a child. I shifted uncomfortably, putting my bag on my shoulder and starting to slip on my shoes, which were also hot from being in the sunlight but moderately better than the concrete. "Um, it was nice chatting with you, Darcy," I began awkwardly, adjusting the bag on my shoulder. Alarmingly, I found that I kind of meant that. Talking to Darcy had still been a distraction, albeit one different from what I'd expected coming here... and not as unpleasant as I would've thought. It had served its purpose, I suppose.

Spending time with him one-on-one had also been different than I would've expected, if I'd ever really considered the possibility in the past. He'd perked up a bit when I said that, giving me one of those almost-sort-of-smiles, shading his face from the sun. I gestured behind me a bit haphazardly. "Anyway, I've got things to do, so I should probably get going before Lydia finds my old MySpace account. See you around," I said, faking a smile as I waved goodbye.

Darcy said nothing in response, so I turned around once again, shaking my head. Of course Darcy wouldn't say anything. That would require him pretending to care about other human beings, and seeing as human beings such as myself are beneath him and his notice, why would he even bother?

Ironically, the familiar deep rumbling of Darcy's voice interrupted my thoughts. "Goodbye, Lizzie." I turned around in surprise but stopped walking for only a moment. He was sitting on the very edge of the chair, his back very straight, his posture very formal. I didn't really know what kind of response that merited, if any (I mean, Good God, if even I could pseudo-compliment him on his conversation skills, you'd think he could at least do the same if my talking to him wasn't too much of a nuisance!), so I just smiled, waved, and then turned back around to leave.

As I did this, my phone beeped, and I glanced down at it. _Text from George Wickham_, it read. I couldn't help but smile. I hadn't heard from him much since we met, a few sporadic texts here and there with some mutual flirting which would then fade into nothingness because the both of us were busy. Him texting me was one of the few highlights to my otherwise largely boring and monotonous summer, and I was happy to hear from him. I'd almost made it to the car by that point and was ready to see what it said, but I stopped at the remembrance of Caroline.

She would be expecting me to be here when she got home, and, judging by the lack of other cars in the driveway, Caroline still wasn't back home yet. Bing was still off with my sister, carpooling, and they wouldn't be back for several hours.

I could've told her the whole truth. That I'd been to Netherfield, ran into Darcy, and ended staying up longer than I should've... but I didn't want to say that, had Lydia not interrupted, I might be drinking lemonade with Darcy poolside or something equally ridiculous and disturbing. Plus, well, Caroline and Darcy's relationship or lack thereof is not something I can ever pretend to understand. All I know is that, for all Caroline claims to be annoyed by him, she's still pleasant and perfectly civil. In fact, judging by her behavior, one would be hard-pressed to think she disliked him at all. She gets kind of weird about him sometimes, like she's hiding something, but she's very cagey whenever I ask her about it.

If I didn't know better, I'd say that she had a thing for him or, I don't know, that he made a pass at her or something, and Caroline didn't know how to respond afterward. However, Darcy's general disinterest in Caroline and distance from her seems to negate that theory, although I suppose he could be like that because he's embarrassed and disappointed and doesn't know how to interact with her after that. His responses to her many questions (obviously to fill the numerous awkward silences that ensue whenever Darcy enters a room) are always short and to the point.

Of course, all of that's just ridiculous speculation, and in all likelihood they're probably just two somewhat dissimilar people thrown together because of Bing. I just kind of have this tendency to want to romanticize things. Darcy is her older brother's best friend, and she's hanging around with the big boys, so of course that'll be awkward. I wonder what poor Caroline does all day, stuck with the two of them... one a fool in love, and the other one Darcy. She's a better woman than I am to put up with all that brooding, that's all I can say.

_Hey, Caroline. So sorry we didn't get to talk, but thanks for letting me come over for a bit,_ I began. I reached down to unlock and open the car door, still debating what to say next. I slipped into the car, settling into the seat. I bit my lip in contemplation before continuing, _I would've waited, but some things came up at home... and I need to see what Lydia did to the vlog. I kinda lost it and left her and Collins alone together. Anyway, we should get coffee some time. _Satisfied with my message, I sent it off and then reached over to close the car door.

I'd just put the keys in the ignition and turned the car on when I remembered George's text. Foot on the breaks, fastening my seatbelt with one hand, I picked my phone back up and opened the message. _Missed talking to you, Bennet. You're probably the most interesting person I've met all summer. ;)_

Naturally, I smiled and tried not to swoon like a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl. I like to think I'm a bit beyond that now. Especially since I was behind the wheel. _Right back at you, Wickham_, I replied, still smiling, before I could think better of it, setting my phone down and returning my attention to the road. My phone buzzed a few times, but I didn't dare check it until I got home. When I got home, Wickham's texts and Lydia's antics ensured that I had all but forgotten about the strange interlude with Darcy and the lingering confusion that came with it.

* * *

- Loren ;*

Anyway, I'd love to hear what you have to think about it. And if there's a secret community of LBD fics out there I just don't know about. *dreamy sigh* Thanks for reading!


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